


O Holy Night

by sunrize83



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/sunrize83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knew the truth, and the burden of it was becoming more than he could bear: Dean wasn't the one who should have died.</p>
<p>Originally posted in 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Long lay the world in sin and error pining_  
 _Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth_

"O Holy Night" by Placide Cappeau

 

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring...

Well. Except Sam.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the muted rumble of the furnace, incessant ticking of the bedside clock, and Dean's gentle snores. Sounds he'd normally find comforting now grated on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He was so damn tired--his body sluggish and achy, his eyes gritty--but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't sleep.

He and Dean had driven for over 20 hours, straight through the night, to make it to South Dakota for Christmas Eve dinner. Bobby's five-alarm chili wasn't exactly turkey with all the trimmings, but then the man always had marched to his own drummer.

And anyway, it wasn't like they'd come for the food. Though they didn't talk about it, Sam knew he and Dean had felt the same urge to spend Christmas someplace familiar. Bobby's house wasn't home, but these days it was the closest he and his brother had.

Dad was gone. His body salted and burned, his clothes given to Goodwill--except for one flannel shirt that Sam had tucked in the bottom of his duffel. He'd pull it out sometimes, eyes burning, and inhale the faint scent of gun oil and aftershave, the worn material soft under his fingertips. Only when Dean was off getting food or hitting a bar, though. His brother was having a difficult enough time dealing. He didn't need the burden of Sam's sorrow added to his own.

If he turned his head, Sam could just see the outline of Dean's body in the adjacent bed, his face a pale moon in the darkness. He didn't need light to see the shadows under his brother's eyes or the tight set to his mouth--every mark of Dean's grief was written indelibly in his mind.

With a sigh, Sam peeled back the blankets and slid out of bed, wincing when his bare feet hit the cold floorboards. He scooped up his jeans and hoodie, stilling when Dean shifted and mumbled something unintelligible. After a moment Dean's breathing settled into a regular rhythm, and Sam grabbed his shoes and backed carefully out of the room.

Navigating by the faint glow spilling from the Christmas tree, he nearly tripped over Bobby's Rottweiler, Cheney, who was sprawled just outside the bedroom door. The puppy wriggled his tail, whining softly, and Sam shushed him with a quick scratch behind the ears.

Bobby must have turned the thermostat down for the night. Sam shivered, gooseflesh stippling his bare arms and chest, as he hastily dressed in the living room, then grabbed outerwear from the hall closet. He donned coat and gloves, and snugged a hat down over his ears, before easing quietly out the back door.

Bobby's backyard was little more than scrubby grass and weeds with a dilapidated wooden picnic table and a rusted-out gas grill. The table wobbled and creaked as Sam parked his ass on top and propped his feet on the bench. The air was crisp but not unbearably cold, the sky clear.

He tipped his head back, his breath a ghostly plume. This far out in the boonies, the stars were spectacular, thousands of bright pinpricks glittering in the velvet darkness. Sam felt as if the world around him had been wrapped in a blanket of stillness--the house was dark, no cars passed on the road, not even the soft rustling and scurrying of small animals broke the silence.

_Peace on earth_ , he thought, blindsided when the wave of grief he'd held stubbornly at bay crashed over him, forcing him to acknowledge the hole inside him that had grown deeper with each loss.

Mom.

Jessica.

Pastor Jim.

Dad.

Dean.

He was going to lose his brother; Dean was halfway gone already. Sam had tried pleading, nagging, guilting--hell, he'd even offered himself up as a punching bag.

He'd failed.

Dean had always viewed life black and white, no matter how determinedly Sam pointed out shades of gray. He wouldn't see the love behind Dad's sacrifice, couldn't understand that Sam could miss his father while still being so damn thankful he had his brother.

_I was dead. And I should've stayed dead._

Sam folded his legs, pressing his forehead to his knees. He knew the truth, and the burden of it was becoming more than he could bear. Dean wasn't the one who should have died.

"It should have been me," he muttered into the cradle of his arms. "It should have been me."

"You're wrong."

He jerked his head up, nearly tumbling off the bench at the sight of the figure seated beside him. Honey-blonde hair, blue eyes--she looked exactly as she had in the kitchen of the home he'd never known. " _Mom_?"

"Sam."

Her smile, warm with affection, twisted something deep in his chest until he could barely breathe. "I thought...I mean, Missouri said..."

With a wry twist of her lips, she shook her head. "Sweetie, you should've figured out by now that Missouri Moseley doesn't know everything. She's just damn bossy about the things she does."

Sam stared at her. "I... Why are you here?"

She tipped her head, regarding him gravely. "I'm here for you, Sam. To show you the real truth."

"I don't understand."

His mother stretched out a pale, slender hand and traced a track of fading wetness on his cheek. "You believe that you should have been the one to die in the fire."

Sam flinched, skin tingling from the phantom brush of her fingertips. "Yes."

"You're wrong."

"How can you say that? You'd still be alive if it wasn't for me. You, Dad, Dean--you'd be a family. Dean would've had a home, not a string of motel rooms. He'd've made friends, gone to college, got married, or--hell, he could've become a fireman. Dad wouldn't have turned into a drill sergeant. And Jess..." His throat locked down and he looked away, blinking hard.

"Sammy." She made his name sound like bear hugs and butterfly kisses, and he wanted so badly to know what it would have been like to crawl in her lap and feel safe. "Nothing is exactly as it seems. There's so much you don't know."

He set his jaw. "I know enough. I know that I'm some kind of supernatural freak. That...that I see visions of people dying. And that the demon that killed you, killed Jess, has _plans_ for me. Can you honestly tell me this world wouldn't be better without me in it?"

"I can do better than that. I'll show you."

For some reason her gentleness sparked his temper. "How? Are you going to go all Clarence on me? 'Cause this isn't Bedford Falls and I doubt you're hoping for a pair of wings."

"Samuel."

He'd heard that tone before, directed at a poltergeist intent on using him as a punching bag. Sam ducked his head. "Sorry."

"Close your eyes."

"Why?"

She huffed, the sound half amusement, half exasperation. "You must have driven your father crazy. Just do it."

He did, and a moment later felt her fingers lace with his. "What--"

The bottom dropped out and he was free falling. He couldn't feel the nip of cold air on his face or the picnic table under his ass, only an odd stretching, as if he were taffy being pulled out of shape. Then there was a sharp tug, and he flowed back into his body like liquid poured into a mold.

"We're here."

Sam opened his eyes, his lips parting in shock. The starry sky, picnic bench, and Bobby's backyard were gone. He was standing in a dingy hallway, worn carpet beneath his feet, walls peeling paint. Many of the overhead lights needed bulbs replaced, the resulting dimness contributing to the overall sense of gloom. Before him was a scarred wooden door bearing the number 26.

"Where's here?" he asked.

She answered with an enigmatic look and a firm tug on their still-joined hands. Before Sam could protest they were stepping _through_ the door and into the apartment beyond.

"Shit!" Sam shuddered, running a hand down his chest while staring over his shoulder at the door. The sensation, while not painful, had been far from pleasant. "We just... How...?"

"Your body's still back at Bobby's, sweetheart. For all intents and purposes, we're not really here."

Sam gazed around him. To his left was a small living room. The television was on--Scooby Doo and Shaggy were running from a menacing-looking ghost--but the couch and chairs were empty. Turning his head, Sam gasped.

Behind him a small boy sat at a table, eyes glued to the TV, short legs kicking and swinging as he munched on a Pop Tart and sipped from a can of Coke.

"Dean."

He walked closer on wobbly legs, mesmerized by the living, breathing little boy he'd only glimpsed in photographs. Sam frowned. The child before him didn't exactly match up to those pictures. Dean's hair was tangled, his face smudged and sticky. The Batman pajamas he wore had a hole in one knee.

Before Sam could question his mother, a key rattled in the lock of the door. Dean abandoned the pastry, scrambling down from his chair and charging the man who entered. "Daddy!"

Sam's breath caught and his eyes burned. "Dad."

John was dressed in grease-stained coveralls, his jaw heavily stubbled. Sam caught the faint smell of alcohol as his father walked past him.

"Dean." He touched the shaggy head, then gently disentangled the arms wrapped around his waist. "It's after nine, kiddo. Why aren't you in school?"

Dean pulled away, evading his father's gaze. "She couldn't take me today."

"Why couldn't she--" John's gaze landed on the table and his expression turned thunderous. Snatching the half-eaten Pop Tart and soda can he brandished them at his son. "Damn it, Dean! What the hell is this?"

Dean's eyes filled with tears and he bit his trembling lower lip. "I was hungry."

"Then have some cereal or toast."

"There isn't any."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course there is." John stalked into the kitchen, Dean trailing behind him.

Moving close enough to peer through the doorway, Sam saw the counters and sink were stacked with dirty dishes and pans. He watched his father open and close cupboards. After several moments John leaned against the counter, his shoulders slumped.

"See? I told you." Dean sniffed, rubbing his runny nose on his sleeve. "The Lucky Charms and Cheerios are all gone, the bread's got green stuff all over it, and the milk smells yucky."

"Yeah. I see." John crouched until he and Dean were eye to eye. "Dean. What did you mean when you said Mommy couldn't take you to school?"

With a shrug of his small shoulders, Dean tucked his chin to his chest.

John's back stiffened and his fists clenched, then relaxed. "Where is she?"

"In the bedroom." When his father stood, Dean hastened to add, "She said not to bother her. I think she's sick."

John clenched his jaw. "Go get dressed, son."

"But, Daddy! I'll be late, and when you're late all the kids stare at you and Mrs. Stewart makes you stay in for recess."

" _Now_ , Dean."

"Yes, sir." Dean sent his father a worried look and shuffled out of the kitchen.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. After a few minutes he opened them and strode out of the kitchen. Sam looked at his mother, who gestured for him to follow.

Down the hallway from the kitchen were two doorways. As Sam passed the first, he saw Dean sitting on a rumpled bed. The little boy was sniffling, his cheeks wet with tears as he pulled on a pair of socks. Heart twisting, Sam moved on to the second.

The shades were tightly drawn, the room deep in shadow. John stood at the foot of a large bed. Despite the warmth of the apartment, the sleeper was buried under several layers of blankets, only a few blonde tresses visible. Pressing his lips together, he walked quickly to the windows and snapped up the shades, flooding the room with sunlight.

"John? What are you doing?" The voice was dull, lifeless.

Sam stole a quick look at his mother, who'd come to stand beside him. She gazed at her counterpart in the bed, sorrow in her eyes.

His father peeled back the covers. "Get up, Mary."

She scooted back against the headboard, blinking in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"Dean was supposed to be at school over an hour ago and you're still sleeping, that's what's wrong," he snapped.

Clutching the sheet to her chest, she tucked tangled hair behind her ear. "I'm not feeling well." She flinched when he touched his palm to her forehead.

"Bullshit." He sat on the edge of the mattress. "You're hiding. All you do anymore is sleep."

"How would you know? It's not like you're around to notice."

His jaw dropped, then he scowled at her. "You think I like working the late shift? Putting in overtime is the only way I'll ever make enough money to get us out of this dump."

She laughed, but it was a cold, humorless sound. "Overtime? Never heard it called that before."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I just didn't realize there was a big demand for mechanics at the corner bar."

John went rigid. "So I stopped for a few drinks after work. At least I do my job." He stood, waving his arms. "This place is a pigsty, the laundry hasn't been done in over a week... Dean was drinking a damn Coke because there's no milk in the house and his mother couldn't be bothered to make him breakfast.

Mary's eyes glistened. "I told you, I'm sick."

"God, stop! I'm tired of your excuses! You either walk around like a ghost, or you're holed up in here sleeping. It feels like we buried you along with--"

"Daddy?"

John whirled at the small voice, the fury melting from his face. "Dean." He swallowed. "Are you ready to go?"

Dean folded his arms and stuck out his chin, though his voice trembled. "You shouldn't yell at Mommy when she's sick."

"It's all right, sweetie." Dean's wide eyes shifted to his mother's face. "Get your backpack together and wait for Daddy in your room."

When Dean hesitated, John frowned. "You heard your mother."

As soon as Dean had darted back down the hallway, Mary's face crumpled and she pressed a hand to her mouth. John sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. After a moment of her stifled sobs, his face softened and he returned to the bed to gather her in his arms.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry." She fisted his shirt, burrowing her face the crook of his neck. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

John stroked a hand through her hair, his voice rough. "I miss him too. Not a day goes by that I don't. But he's gone, Mary. Dean and I, we're still here."

"I just need some time, that's all. Just a little more time."

As his father tried to comfort her, his face twisted with a mixture of anger and grief, Sam saw a small figure hovering just outside the room.

Cool fingers slipped into Sam's hand. "We have to go," his mother said, drawing him away.

He pulled back, unable to tear his eyes from the three despondent figures. "Wait. It gets better, right? She--you--pull out of it, eventually?"

"I'm afraid not."

Sam snapped his eyes to her face, his throat tightening at the sorrow there.

"The trauma of not being able to save you, of watching you die... I slipped into a deep depression. Your father tried, but..."

Across the room, he watched John ease his wife to the mattress, tucking the blankets around her. "What happened?" Sam whispered.

"One night, when your father was at work and Dean was sleeping, I took a bottle of pills. By the time he came home...it was too late."

Horrified, Sam opened his mouth to protest. _No. You wouldn't..._ But before the words could leave his lips, he felt a sharp tug, and everything around him dropped away.


	2. Chapter 2

When the world solidified, Sam found himself standing in the middle of a hotel room. With its frayed polyester bedspreads and cracked plaster, it could have been any one of a hundred rooms he and Dean had stayed in over the past year. An open duffle containing clothes and weapons lay at the foot of each double bed.

The door banged open and two people staggered in. Sam quickly recognized the smaller figure as Dean. His brother looked to be twelve or thirteen, all gangly arms and legs but still lacking muscle. He held John's arm looped around his shoulders, and was supporting the bulk of his father's weight. Both were covered with blood, though most of it seemed to be John's.

Dean shuffled to the closest bed, lowering his father with a grunt. "I'll get the first aid kit."

"Grab the whiskey while you're at it." John stripped off the shredded remains of his shirt, his face twisted with discomfort.

Three gashes ran diagonally across his chest, deep purple bruising already blossoming along his ribs. When Dean returned with a glass of water and the familiar white box, Sam saw dried blood beneath his brother's nose. A swollen lip. An eye beginning to blacken.

"Gonna need stitches," John said, propping a pillow against the headboard and leaning back with a grimace.

"Gotta clean it up first." Dean set the glass on the bedside table, depositing two white pills beside it.

John curled up his lip. "The hell's that?"

"Tylenol. With codeine." Dean kept his head down, laying out packets of sterile gauze.

"I told you to bring me the whiskey."

"I thought it would be better if--"

"I didn't ask you to think. Just do as you were told."

Something like anger flickered in Dean's eyes, but when he lifted his face it was carefully neutral. "Yes, sir."

John fingered one of the cuts. "Sonuvabitch had a helluva set of claws. 

"Dad still became a hunter?" Sam asked his mother, his gaze on Dean as his brother pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels from one of the duffles. 

She nodded. "It took him a bit longer, but yes, he eventually found his way to Missouri."

John took several swallows from the bottle, clutching it loosely against his side as Dean methodically cleaned dirt and blood from each gash.

"You sure you got all the shell casings?" John asked through gritted teeth, taking another pull from the bottle.

"I said I did." Dean peeled open a suture kit. He hesitated, tweezers in hand. "You sure you don't want the codeine?"

"Just do it." John held himself rigidly still as the needle pierced flesh. "And don't take all day."

"If I don't take small stitches it's gonna scar."

"I'm not planning on entering a beauty contest."

"Fine." Dean clenched his jaw, keeping the stitches neat and even.

"Damn werewolves." John took another swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Bastards always travel in packs, and they're unpredictable as hell."

Dean muttered something under his breath as he stabbed the needle into tender flesh.

"Ow! Watch it." John narrowed his eyes. "What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Didn't sound like nothing." When Dean continued stitching, he clamped a hand onto his wrist, stilling the movement. "Answer me."

Dean glared at him, eyes blazing. "I said maybe if we'd taken time to look around, we'd've known what to expect."

"You'd rather we gave them a chance to kill someone else, is that it?"

"I'd rather they didn't kill _you_!" Dean blurted, his voice unsteady. "You get hurt all the time lately."

"You're exaggerating." The whiskey level had dropped considerably and John's words were beginning to slur.

"Three broken ribs from the poltergeist in Columbus. You lost so much blood after that black dog bite in Canton, you had to have a transfusion. And that zombie in River Grove nearly took your head off."

"Hazards of the job, Dean." John released his grip. "You should know that by now."

"It wasn't always like this." Dean rubbed the bracelet of red marks encircling his wrist. "You used to say understanding the enemy was the most important part of the job. That getting sloppy gets you dead."

"I know what I said."

"Then why aren't you listening to yourself?" Dean searched his father's face, his eyes pleading.

John knitted his brows, lifting a warning finger. "Watch your tone, young man."

"I'm right, and you know it! You drink all the time now, even when we're on a hunt. And you're so stoked to kill something, you...you just rush in without a plan."

"Enough, Dean." 

John's voice held a low growl of warning but Dean was on a roll, too distraught and angry to notice.

"It's like that's all you think about anymore--drinking and shooting stuff."

"Dean--"

"Sometimes I think you don't care if you get hurt. Maybe you don't. Maybe you want to die, like her--"

The sharp crack echoed in the sudden silence. Eyes liquid, Dean pressed a hand to his freshly bleeding lip.

John looked away, a muscle twitching high in his cheek. Abruptly sober, he picked up the tweezers Dean had dropped on the bed and thrust them at him. "Finish."

Sam watched in stunned silence as his brother wiped bloody fingers on his shirt and accepted the tweezers with shaking hands.

"I...I don't understand." He looked at his mother. "Dad wasn't reckless. He planned every move. He'd never risk drinking on a hunt, especially if we were along. And he never hit us."

Her smile was sad. "In a way, that isn't really _your_ dad, Sam. Your dad had a baby to take care of when I died. He couldn't afford to drink, even after Dean was asleep, because you might wake up and need him. And as for reckless, well, he had you reining him in." 

With a short bark of laughter, Sam shook his head. "Me? I didn't--"

"How many times did you ask questions? Push him to explain everything before you'd do as he asked?" 

"He hated when I did that! Half the time he'd just shut me down."

"And then go find the answer. Or think through his plans one more time." She cocked her head, amusement and affection quirking her lips. "You grounded him, Sammy."

Sam glanced away, vision blurring. "I always figured Dean was better than me. A better hunter. A better son. Because he did things Dad's way and never asked questions."

His mother touched his cheek. "They didn't have to ask the questions, sweetheart. They had you." She dropped her hand and slipped it into his. "Time to go."

Sam pulled back. "Wait." He looked at his brother--doggedly stitching the last of the scratches as his father continued drinking-- and swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "Dean...will he be okay?"

She gave his hand a tug, turning her head so he could no longer see her face. "Come. I'll show you."

As the room dropped away Sam saw Dean pry the empty bottle from their father's lax hand. His face was expressionless, his eyes bleak.

When the world eventually righted itself, Sam still felt off-balance, as if he'd left a piece of himself back in the shabby motel room. His mother stood patiently at his side as he sucked in a calming breath, then scanned their surroundings. 

They were on a street corner in the middle of a large city. Neon signs lit up the night sky and the rumble of engines and acrid smell of exhaust filled the air.

Sam frowned at the imposing brick building in front of him. "County jail. What are we doing here?"

His mother silently inclined her head toward a man who strode quickly past them, shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

"Dad?" With a sharp look at his mother, Sam followed his father up the steps and into the building.

Inside he found mass confusion. One uniformed cop was refereeing an argument between what looked to be a husband and wife while another herded two obscenity-screaming hookers toward a holding area. A female officer comforted a quietly sobbing young woman as her three young children climbed on the plastic chairs and chased each other in circles.

Sam wove his way through the chaos, grimacing when one of the kids plowed straight through him without missing a step. His father leaned an elbow on the front desk, flagging down a burly sergeant.

"I'm here for my son. He was brought in earlier this evening."

"Name?" The cop sounded bored, and he didn't bother glancing up from the computer.

"Dean Winchester."

A few more keystrokes, and when the sergeant did look at John there was a hard glint in his eyes. "Down that hallway, second door on the left. Have a seat and someone'll bring him in."

John didn't answer, only pushed off the counter as if just straightening up took a great deal of effort. His eyes were red-rimmed, lines bracketed his mouth, and a more gray peppered his hair than Sam remembered.

That Dean had been detained by the police was disturbing to Sam, but not shocking. As hunters they did their best to fly under the legal radar, but an occasional clash with the police was inevitable.

The second door on the left led to a small room, empty but for a table and several chairs. John eyed them but chose to remain standing. He paced back and forth like a caged lion, his brow furrowed and his jaw tightly clenched. After several minutes the door opened and a man in a rumpled coat and tie stepped inside.

"Mr. Winchester, I'm Detective Blake."

John ignored the outstretched hand. "Where's my son?"

Blake's lips tightened, but he kept his voice even. "Please, have a seat. Dean will be along in a minute, but I need to talk with you first."

After a brief hesitation, John lowered himself into a chair, his posture wary. "I'm listening."

Blake took a seat across the table. He opened the manila folder in his hands, spreading the contents across the surface. "Your son has quite the record. Shoplifting. Vandalism. Assault. Drugs."

"What? That can't be right." Sam shot an incredulous look at his mother, moving around the table to peer over the detective's shoulder. His stomach lurched at the mug shot clipped to the top page. Dean, his eyes cold, his expression blank.

John folded his arms across his chest. "I don't need a rundown of his past transgressions. What is it you want?"

With a sigh, Blake shuffled the papers back into the folder. "Dean's record shows an escalating disregard for the law, Mr. Winchester. He's graduated from petty crimes to much more serious offenses. I'm afraid he's going to end up doing some hard time for this one."

His spine stiffening, John gripped the edge of the table. "Hard time? I thought it was a simple drug charge."

The detective gave a small shake of his head. "Dealing, Mr. Winchester. Not possession. Add to that the fact his little business transaction went down in close proximity to a school, and you've got a class B felony. He's facing a possible ten-year sentence."

The color drained from John's face. "He's seventeen years old."

"With more than three strikes against him. The D.A.'s office will go for the throat this time. They'll want him tried as an adult."

Eyes empty with shock, John ran a hand down his face. "I don't... What can I do?"

Blake closed the folder and stood. "Get a very good lawyer." He paused, a thread of compassion seeping into his voice. "And see if you can convince him to clean up his attitude, Mr. Winchester. He walks into a courtroom the way he is now, and no judge will see past that chip on his shoulder." 

He opened the door and gestured to someone in the hallway. "Bring him in."

As Blake exited, another cop led a cuffed Dean into the room, one hand clamped firmly on his elbow. Clothing torn and dirty, Dean's cheek was bruised, his eyes defiant. 

With a sharp push to the shoulders, the cop sat him in the chair Blake had vacated. "You've got ten minutes."

Dean's cocky grin held an edge. "Thanks, Starsky. Now how about a getting me a cup of coffee?"

"Dean," John said wearily as the officer left the room. "Shut the hell up."

Tipping his chair back, Dean made a tsking sound. "Is that any way to talk to your son? And you wonder why I've turned out this way."

"This isn't a joke."

Dean let the legs hit the floor with a thump. "Does it look like I'm laughing?"

John leaned in close, his jaw thrust forward. "I don't understand you, Dean. Dealing drugs? Near a school? What the hell were you thinking?"

With a twitch of one shoulder, Dean smirked at his father. "I needed the money. They needed to get high. Seemed like the perfect arrangement."

Without warning John launched himself across the table. Grabbing Dean by the collar, he shook him. Hard. "Yeah? Well now you're going to prison, you stupid little bastard! Does it still look perfect?" He released him with a shove. "You shame me. I taught you better than this."

Dean laughed, a bitter, jagged sound like breaking glass. "You've got to be kidding me. All the credit card scams, the fake I.D.s, hustling poker and pool? _You_ made me the man I am today, Dad. Way I see it, you should be damn proud."

John curled his fingers into a fist, his breath coming in hard pants.

Dean tipped his chin up, silently daring him to follow through. They glared at each other for several long moments until John backed away.

"I'm done," he said, buttoning his coat. "I refuse to keep bleeding for someone who's just not worth it." He walked to the door. "You think you're such a tough guy? You can ride this one out on your own."

"You know what? That's fine with me," Dean sneered, raising his voice as his father stepped into the hallway. "I don't need you. You hear me, Dad? I never have and I never will!"

The slam of the door was his only answer. For a moment Dean remained frozen. Then he folded into the chair, his face crumpling. "Selfish sonuvabitch," he choked, scrubbing his eyes on his sleeve. "Better off without you."

Sam didn't realize he'd been moving until his back hit the wall. Knees weak, he slid down the smooth surface until his ass hit the floor. "This is all wrong." He looked at his mother, anger boiling up and spilling over. "This is bullshit! Vandalism? Assault? Drugs? I know Dean, and he'd never do any of those things."

"Sam." She crouched down beside him. "How many times did your father leave you and Dean alone when you were children? How often were you expected to fend for yourselves?"

"He was hunting monsters. And the thing that killed you. A lot of people are still alive because of him."

"I realize that," she said, calm in the face of his anger. "But the fact of the matter is, he left two young boys unsupervised for long periods of time. Boys who weren't old enough to be saddled with that kind of responsibility. Who could very easily have gotten themselves into deep trouble."

"But we didn't get into trouble." Sam caught himself, lips twitching at a memory. "Well, nothing serious, anyway. Dean took care of me. He made sure I had enough to eat, that I got to school on time, did my homework..." He trailed off, his gaze darting to the boy at the table.

His mother sat beside him, her shoulder pressed to his. After a lengthy silence, Sam turned his head, searching her face.

"You're saying that taking care of me kept Dean out of trouble. Prevented him from becoming...that."

She smiled up at him. "The day we brought you home from the hospital, I placed you in Dean's arms and told him, 'This is your baby brother Sam. It's your job as his big brother to take care of him, to protect him, and to love him.' He took that job very seriously."

Sam swallowed, his throat tight. "He still does."

She took his hand and gave it a firm squeeze. "Finally. I think maybe you're beginning to understand."


	3. Chapter 3

The dematerialization...transporting...whatever the hell you called it was rougher this time--maybe because Sam's insides felt just as twisted and pulled as his not-really-there body. He landed on a residential sidewalk lined with large trees, and promptly pressed his spine against the rough bark of the nearest, closing his eyes.

He'd thought he understood. His place in the family Winchester and, lately, in the grander scheme of things.

A mistake.

Never good enough for his father. A burden to his brother.

Source of pain and loss to those he loved.

Freak.

But he couldn't shake the image of his dad. Hardened. Reckless. Worn down and weary beyond his years.

And Dean. Bitter. Cold.

Lost.

Had he really made such a difference? He wanted badly to believe the blessings outweighed the cost, but God, the cost. Mom. Dad. Jessica...

He popped open his eyes to find his mother watching him.

"What about Jess?" He pushed away from the tree and joined her where she stood on the sidewalk. "Dad, Dean--I can accept they were destined to be drawn into this nightmare with the demon. But Jess... Its only interest in her was through me. Tell me how I made her life better."

With the barest curve of her lips, his mother gestured around them. "That's why we're here."

For the first time Sam paid attention to his surroundings. His lips parted in shock. "Wait a minute. I know... This is Stanford. Fraternity row."

"That's right." She stepped aside and he saw a young woman striding down the sidewalk.

Sam's heart stuttered painfully in his chest. He'd know her anywhere, the glorious mane of golden curls, the wide blue eyes, the lines and planes of her face, the sweet curve of her body. Seeing her like this--beautiful, and whole, and _alive_ \--sparked an ache in his chest so deep he could barely breathe.

She walked briskly, eyes fixed firmly ahead, pointedly ignoring the dark-haired guy stubbornly keeping pace beside her.

"C'mon, beautiful, give me a minute."

"I don't have a minute," she gritted out through clenched teeth without breaking stride.

"Sure you do. Hey!" He grabbed her arm, pulling her to a halt. "Didn't anyone ever teach you it's rude to ignore someone when he's talking to you?"

"Hang on--I know this asshole," Sam said, moving closer and studying the guy's angular face. "Steve Larson, Mr. Delta Tau Delta. Spoiled rich kid who thought he was God's gift to women. He had a thing for Jess freshman year. Used to follow her around like a puppy."

"Let go of me." Jess twisted out of Larson's grip, scowling. "I'm late for class."

"No you're not." Smirking, Larson pretended to consult his watch. "You don't have another class until two o'clock. Poli Sci, if I'm not mistaken."

Jess narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips tightly together. "What--are you spying on me?"

"I prefer to think of it as research."

"You're wasting your time." She tried to continue walking, but he stepped in front of her.

"I don't think so." He crowded her, invading her space. "C'mon, we both know you're going to say 'yes.'"

"Well one of us is delusional. Now get out of my way."

"Just think of it," he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "The two of us cruising around in my Jag, eating at all the best restaurants, partying at the most exclusive clubs." He lowered his voice. "I'll treat you real good, baby." Moving a lock of hair behind her shoulder, he let his fingers brush her breast. "Bet you'll treat me real good, too."

With a low growl, Sam went for him, but the crack of Jess's palm meeting Larson's cheek pulled him up short.

"I'm not your baby, and I never will be," Jess said, her lip curled in disgust. "You touch me again and I'll call the campus police." She shouldered past him and stalked down the sidewalk, head held high, body rigid with fury, as several frat boys who'd been hanging out on the porch erupted in hoots and catcalls.

"Aw, too bad, Stevie."

"Looks like you're not her type."

"Guess money really can't buy you love."

Larson's face flushed, and he clenched his hands into fists. "You little bitch," he spat at her retreating back.

Jess pulled her shoulders a little higher but kept walking.

Sam turned to his mother as Larson stomped toward his frat brothers, swearing like a sailor. "Why show me this?" He glanced at Larson and broke into a grin. "Okay, so it was pretty sweet to see Jess put the slimeball in his place. But it's got nothing to do with proving I didn't ruin her life."

His mother looked at Jess, and the sadness on her face sent a shiver up Sam's spine. "Are you sure?"

Sudden uneasiness sharpened Sam's tone. "Like I told you, Larson was always sniffing around Jess. But eventually he got it through his thick head she wasn't interested and left her alone."

Mary shifted her eyes to his face. "He didn't leave her alone because she wasn't interested, Sam. He left her alone because _you were_."

The skittering anxiety grew, settling like a block of ice in Sam's stomach. "What are you saying?"

"Take my hand."

"No." He shook his head, reflexively tucking his arms behind his back. "This is stupid, it doesn't mean anything. Just take me back."

"Samuel."

"Mom." The name caught in his throat, a weak plea. He had an idea what she wanted to show him, and he desperately didn't want to see it.

Though the warmth of her gaze said she understood, Mary didn't relent. Surrendering to her persistence, his heart pounding, Sam slowly stretched out his hand.

Her fingers curled around his and squeezed. "Breathe," she said softly.

A quick slip-slide, and they were on one of the remote sections of campus, in the foothills that stretched toward the mountains. A Jeep was parked on the grass, one door open, the engine ticking as it cooled. The sky was dark, lit only with stars, and hushed voices and ragged sobs pierced the silence.

"Please _don't_! Let me go. I won't tell, I promise, just don't--"

"Shut up." The smack of flesh on flesh, a choked cry, and then quickly muffled sobs.

"Jessica." Sam moved around the car on rubbery legs, shaking with grief and rage at the sight of three shadowy figures.

Jessica lay sprawled on the ground, bruises blossoming on her cheekbone, blood mingling with her tears. Something had been stuffed into her mouth to prevent her from speaking, and her eyes were glassy and wild with fear. Steve Larson straddled her hips, one hand pinning her wrists while the other hiked her skirt up past her thighs.

A second boy stood by with a flashlight, an ugly grin twisting his mouth. "Gotta admit, Stevie--you were right. She's smokin' hot."

Larson glared over his shoulder. "This isn't a peep show. Go take a walk or something--you'll get a taste when I'm finished."

"You son of a bitch!" Sam lunged for Larson, roaring when his hands passed through without resistance.

He tried again and again, finally staggering away. Unable to watch the horror unfolding, he dropped to his knees, eyes shut and hands clamped over his ears. Something in his chest tore loose and shattered into a million pieces.

"Just stop," he keened. "God, please--no more."

"Sam."

He shook his head, screwing his eyes more tightly shut, tears slipping out anyway. "No! No, I can't..."

"Sammy."

He couldn't resist the velvet command in his mother's voice, and Sam wondered vaguely if that's where Dean had learned it. He blinked open his eyes, breath still hitching, and she slid into focus.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't want to show you that."

"Then why did you? Why the hell would you show me my girlfriend..." He swallowed hard and looked around. With a jolt he realized he longer knelt in the open field, but an empty room--white, featureless walls and no door in sight. "Where...?"

His mother's eyes were warm with compassion. "You could call this an 'in between' place. I needed to get you out of there quickly."

Sam bit his lip, hit with a fresh wave of anguish. He paced to the wall and back again. "Did... did he kill her?"

"No, sweetheart." She shook her head with a small smile. "Your Jess is a tough young woman. She not only survived, she went to the police. Stephen Larson never graduated from Stanford. Instead, he served 15 years for kidnapping and rape."

Sam searched her face. "But?"

Mary sighed. "Jessica finished school, built a successful career in education. But she never really moved past what happened that night, especially when it came to trusting people. Trusting men. She never fell in love, never married, never had children."

"But she lived," Sam murmured.

His mother touched his arm. "Devoid of love. Of companionship. Of laughter. Some would say a moment filled with those things is better than a lifetime without them."

With a jerk, he shrugged off her hand. "But none of this happened, right? You show me these things--terrible things about Dad...Dean...God, and Jess--but they aren't _real_."

"They could have been. If not for you." She took his face between her palms, and he couldn't pull away, mesmerized by the love and pain in her gaze. "You sat on that bench tonight and wished yourself out of existence. My sweet Sammy, who I carried in my body, held in my arms. Who one day will--" She caught herself, pressing her lips together.

Sam licked his lips, his mouth dry. "Mom?"

"That's why I brought you here and showed you these terrible things." Reaching up, she brushed shaggy hair from his eyes. "You are not a mistake or burden, Sam, and you're not the cause of the evil that's touched the people you love."

Sam widened his eyes at her nearly word-for-word summary of his earlier thoughts. "How did you--"

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that you accept this world needs you. Your dad, Dean, Jessica, and I--our lives are better because you're in them."

Sam looked away, his jaw clenched. "I want to believe that."

"You _must_ believe that." She dropped her hand and her voice turned to steel. "Ellen was half right, Sam. There is a war coming. And you and Dean are caught in the middle of it. You've got to trust yourself, now more than ever."

He glared at her. "That's why you showed me all this? To make sure I continue on as the good little soldier?"

She flinched at the harshness of his words, but remained calm. "I showed you because you're my son. Because I love you. And because I thought you needed to hear someone say they were proud of you. And I am, Sam. So very proud."

She tilted her head, looking up at him through glistening eyes. "You're a good man, sweetheart. No matter what doubts you may face in the days to come, never question the truth of that."

Sam looked away, blinking hard. Hearing that she loved him, that she was proud of the person he'd become, filled a hole he hadn't realized existed. Still, he didn't miss what lay unspoken beneath her words.

"You keep talking like something terrible is coming," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Do you know what the demon wants? What his plans are for me?"

His stomach plunged when she evaded his gaze. "It's time for me to take you back. This place is meant to be a way station, not a destination."

"Mom--"

"I've shown you all I can, Sam." She smiled ruefully. "More than I should. Now let's go. Dean's looking for you."

"Wait." Sam furrowed his brow. "You said Ellen was half right. How was she wrong?"

She smiled, brushing her fingers down his cheek before lacing them with his. "She said their side holds all the cards."

Before Sam could question her, he felt the familiar breath-stealing tug, and everything dropped away.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sam. Sammy! Wake up._

The voice was familiar, but distant. Still, like a mosquito buzzing in his ear, it wouldn't leave him alone.

_You're pissing me off, Sammy. Open your eyes._

Dean? Sam tried to respond, but his body felt too heavy and thick--like that time he and Dean had been hunting a water sprite and got stuck in a bog.

_Damn it, Sam. You're supposed to be the smart one. What the hell are you trying to do--turn into a human popsicle?_

The edge of panic in Dean's voice pulled Sam back. He could feel hands now, chafing his arms, then slapping his cheek.

"Ow." He pried open his eyes, squinting at his brother's worried face, which hovered above him.

Above him?

"'Bout time, Princess. C'mon, let's see if you can sit up." Dean's curt words couldn't hide the slight tremor beneath.

Blinking up at snowflakes drifting through the night sky, Sam realized he lay stretched out on the picnic table, flat on his back. When Dean grabbed hold of his jacket and pulled him upright, the world spun and Sam swayed.

"Whoa. Easy, Sammy." With a hand braced on each shoulder, Dean steadied him. "You think you can walk? 'Cause we need to get you inside and warmed up, and I'm not carrying your ass."

"'M not cold." In fact, he felt comfortably warm and sleepy.

"Right. So humor me."

Dean hauled Sam's arm over his shoulder and steered him toward the back door. Sam's legs felt loose and wobbly, and he found he needed to watch his feet or they ended up wandering off in the wrong direction.

"Anyone ever tell you that you've got freakishly long arms and legs?" Dean asked, sounding breathless.

"You."

His brother snorted, maneuvering them through the doorway and cursing when he banged an arm on the jamb. Once inside, Sam was hit with a wave of hot air and Bobby's sleep-confused face.

"What's goin' on?"

"Nothing. Sam here just decided to do some stargazing." Dean navigated them around the wooden table, swearing again when Sam's feet tangled up and they bounced off a wall.

Bobby trailed them into the living room. "He drunk?" he asked as Dean lowered Sam onto the couch.

"Nope. Just stupid." Dean glanced over his shoulder as he unzipped Sam's coat. "You mind making some coffee?"

"Might as well. Not like I'm sleepin'." Bobby retreated to the kitchen, grumbling under his breath.

A tremor rippled through Sam's body, followed quickly by another, then another. Suddenly he was shivering in earnest. "C...cold," he stuttered, teeth clacking.

"No shit, Sherlock." But Dean's touch was gentle as he slipped the coat from Sam's shoulders and tugged the hat off his head. "Don't move."

He disappeared.

Sam curled over, shaking, as he tried to piece together why Dean would take his coat when he was freezing. Before he reached any conclusions, his brother returned.

"Why'd you t...take my c...coat?"

"Because it's wet. It's snowing out there, in case you hadn't noticed. Here." Dean wrapped something soft and warm around his shoulders. The blanket from Sam's bed.

Sam gratefully clutched it between jittering fingers as Dean pulled off his sneakers and cocooned his legs and feet in a second quilt. Dean then scrubbed a towel over Sam's now-dripping hair before pulling the hood from his sweatshirt over his head.

Sam burrowed deeper into the blanket. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Dean crouched in front of him, staring intently into his eyes as he pressed the backs of his fingers to Sam's cheek. "Dude, you're like ice."

"Ss...sorry."

"You should take a hot shower, but right now you'd probably fall on your ass. And I don't feel like cleaning up blood." Dean stood and folded his arms, glaring down at Sam. "What were you doing out there anyway?"

"C...couldn't sl...sleep."

"You ever hear of counting sheep? We're in frickin' South Dakota, Sam. In December. You can't just wander around outside in the middle of the night. If I hadn't woken up--" He broke off, pale and tight-lipped.

Sam watched Dean drape his coat over a nearby chair and listened to Bobby banging around in the kitchen.

He thought of his mother--the feel of her fingers on his cheek, the warmth of her gaze--and his eyes burned. She'd never been more than an idea to him, nebulous and elusive. Now she was real, she was _his_ , and he felt a fresh stab of grief at her loss.

Bobby shuffled into the room, a steaming mug in each hand. "You need anything else?" he asked, eyeing Sam as he handed both cups to Dean.

"Nah, I've got it under control. Thanks." Dean placed one mug on the coffee table and sat down beside Sam.

Sam ducked his head, sensing his brother and Bobby trading looks before Bobby sighed. "All right. I'm heading back to bed. Holler if you need me."

A shoulder nudged Sam's, and he looked up to see Dean offer him the other mug. Reluctantly releasing his death hold on the blanket, he reached for it with shaking hands. Dean didn't let go, just wrapped his fingers around Sam's and guided the mug to Sam's lips.

Sam sipped the hot, strong brew, raising his eyebrows when he realized it had been liberally laced with whiskey. He sighed as tendrils of warmth spread throughout his chilled body, and shrugged off Dean's steadying grip. "I got it."

Dean huffed. "Yeah, until you spill it all over yourself." He backed off and picked up his own cup, but watched Sam carefully.

They sat silently side by side, drinking and staring at Bobby's small tree. Coffee warmed Sam from within, the firm press of Dean's body from without. Gradually, the shivers died down to an occasional tremor.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?" Despite the edge to the question, Dean sounded surprisingly patient.

Tipping his head back, Sam coaxed the last drops from his cup. "Not sure what you mean." The empty mug was firmly removed from his fingers, Dean's half-full cup deposited in its place. The simple gesture warmed him as much as the coffee. "Thanks."

"I want you to tell me why you were passed out on a picnic bench in the middle of a snowstorm."

Swirling the liquid in his cup, Sam slid a quick, sideways glance at Dean. "It wasn't snowing when I went out."

Dean tensed, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Damn it, you think this is a game? Do you know what I thought when I looked out there and saw you--"

"I couldn't stop thinking about you making a deal with that demon, trading your life for Dad's." Sam felt his face heat when his brother went still.

Dean's expression was as carefully neutral as his reply. "I didn't make the deal, Sam."

Sam clenched his jaw, blinking hard. "But you thought about it."

After a long moment of silence, Dean sighed. "Yeah. I did."

Sam nodded and looked away.

"But the bottom line is I didn't do it. And you know why?" Dean waited until Sam looked at him before continuing. "Dad's gone. We're all we've got left. I couldn't...I wouldn't do that to you."

In his head Sam had known it. Hearing Dean say it, though... That went a long way toward convincing his heart.

Dean's foot tapped Sam's shin. "What's the rest?" When Sam looked confused, he huffed impatiently. "That might have been what got you out there, moping like a little girl. But it doesn't explain how you nearly ended up an item in the frozen-food aisle."

Sam shrugged. "I...didn't know I was getting that cold."

"I got that, man. It still doesn't answer the question."

"I didn't know I was getting that cold because..." Sam sucked in a deep breath. "Iwasn'tinmybody."

Dean's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "You wanna run that by me again?"

"I don't... My body was here but I was...gone."

"What, like astral projection or something?"

Sam shrugged, tucking his chin to his chest.

"'Cause if this is another of your freaky Miss Cleo 'abilities,' I'm not sure--"

"It's not," Sam snapped.

Dean eyed him warily. "Okay. So you were gone. Gone where?"

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Sam pushed back his weariness as he struggled to explain. "I saw Mom tonight, Dean."

Dean's face took on the same stunned, stricken expression as when they'd seen their mother in Lawrence. "Mom?"

"I was sitting on the picnic table...thinking...and suddenly she was just...there."

With a frown, Dean shook his head. "How could that be? Missouri said her spirit and the poltergeist's cancelled each other out."

"Apparently Missouri was full of shit."

"Huh. Like that's a newsflash." Dean searched Sam's face. "What did she want? And how does you leaving your body fit in?"

Sam hesitated, chewing his lip. There was no way to answer without revealing what he'd been brooding about before his mother showed up.

"Sam?"

"She wanted to show me some things."

"Things. What things?"

"You, Dad, Jess. What your lives would have been like if... if I'd died in the fire."

Dean studied him a long time before speaking. "Well?" he asked slowly, his voice deliberately casual. "How'd we do?"

Images flashed before Sam's eyes--John, cradling a bottle; Dean, bruised and defiant; and Jess... "Not so good," he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Dean nodded and glanced away, his jaw tight. He didn't speak for several minutes. "Was there some reason why Mom felt she needed you to see that?"

Sam swallowed, his dry throat clicking. "C'mon, Dean. You have to have wondered what it would have been like if... If things would have been better--"

"No." The fierce certainty in Dean's eyes took Sam by surprise. "No, Sammy. I never have."

When Sam started to speak, Dean cut him off. "Just...shut up a minute, okay?" He took a deep breath. "I know I've been a bastard. I know you miss Dad, and you're hurting, and I'm sorry I...I just can't give you what you need." He looked at Sam, his eyes glistening. "But you are _not_ to blame for any of this. Do you understand that?"

Sam's breath caught, and he hiccupped a little laugh. "What about you? You're not to blame either."

They locked gazes. Reclaiming his mug, Dean relaxed into the cushions with the ghost of a smile. "Yeah, well...I'm gonna need some time on that one." He took a swallow from his cup, his gaze shifting to the tree. "But I'll work on it."

"Yeah?" Sam felt the tension drain out of his body.

"Yeah."

Feeling lighter than he had in months, warm inside and out, Sam let whiskey and exhaustion lure him into a contented stupor. He tipped his head back and stared at the tree through heavy-lidded eyes until the lights blurred and ran together.

He didn't realize his head had settled on Dean's shoulder until his brother muttered softly, "You drool on me, bitch, and you can find another pillow," even as he shifted, easing the crook in Sam's neck. Sam sighed, too comfortable to muster a retort or bother opening his eyes.

Terrible things had happened to people Sam loved, and nothing his mother showed him could erase the guilt he felt for his part in it. But seeing there was a flip side--that he'd also managed to make things better--blunted the sharp edges.

He didn't know what storm was coming, or his part in it, but he was pretty damn sure things were going to get a lot worse before they got better. Still, Dean was right--they had each other. Right now, he could let that be enough.

Lips curving, he nudged his brother. "Dean?"

"Mmm." Dean sounded halfway to sleep himself.

"Merry Christmas."

Silence. When he spoke, Dean's voice was as soft and warm as the blanket around Sam's shoulders.

"Merry Christmas, Sammy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was written for [](http://spn-christmas.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://spn-christmas.livejournal.com/)**spn_christmas** combining two prompts: An _It's a Wonderful Life_ takeoff where Sam sees what the world would be like if he didn't exist, and Mary, John, and/or Jess's spirit comes as a Christmas angel.


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